


Sharing Evidence

by J_Baillier



Series: On Pins And Needles [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Guillain-Barré syndrome, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Major Illness, POV John Watson, Protective John Watson, Sherlock is a bundle of worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: The fear will never be entirely gone, but having someone to face it with helps. Especially at three in the morning.





	Sharing Evidence

 

John stirs awake when the mattress shifts violently, leaving behind a momentary bounce and a big dip in the middle. His brain, half-awake but preparing for battle, manages to utter some familiar consonants belonging to his spouse's name as he shoves the duvet down from below his chin. Fumbling for the light switch next, he drags himself to a sitting position, arm brushing against what must be Sherlock's matching body part. It finally registers that the mattress-quake had been caused by his partner sitting up quickly.

This is far from the first time that they've both waken up to the aftermath of Sherlock's nightmare—no, more of a flashback intertwined with sleep—but during the past few years they have gotten fewer and further between. After a whole six months of undisturbed sleep, John had begun hoping that they might be a thing of the past.

At least he knows how to deal with them, now. He's had plenty of experience.

Yup, the signs are all there: the blown pupils unaffected by the sudden brightness of the soft bedside cabinet lamp, the hyperventilation, the shaking. One thing is different, though: usually there's something repetitive and frantically physical going on to drain out anxiety that's trying to take over: fingers twisting into the duvet, a flapping hand against a thigh. Tonight, however, Sherlock is cradling his left arm to his chest, clutching the wrist so hard that the knuckles of his right hand have blanched, and his fingernails seem to be digging into the skin of the other limb.

John knows better than to ask for words, so he offers some of his own. They're what one would expect: _it's alright, you're fine, I'm here_. They're also instructions: _come here, breathe, look at me_. He doesn't ask questions, because when Sherlock is anxious enough the answers get misplaced in the chaos on his mind; trying to coax them out just puts on too much pressure and that just might be the thing that tips the whole thing over into a meltdown. Those are rare, and they are almost as wrenching an experience for John because there's little he can do to fix them. All that he can do is to console from a distance, to provide a grounding presence, to wait patiently. Only time, peace and quiet will allow neural pathways to reset, catecholamines to drain out. It’s a case of _being there_ when Sherlock makes a gradual return from the Mind Palace—his standard destination of a tactical retreat when the outside world completely overwhelms him. The outside world—or his own senses.

John drapes an arm around his shoulder, another around his chest, brings his hands together and buries his nose in the dark curls that have a slight scent of clementine and mint courtesy of a late night shower. John had joined him for it, hoping that it might lead to lovemaking, but Sherlock had seemed distracted—evasive, even. He'd cranked up the water temperature higher than John was comfortable with, so he'd stepped out before Sherlock, leaving him to his meticulous haircare routines. Now, his curls feel still slightly damp, either from not having dried them off properly or from nervous sweat.

John leans away momentarily to have a look at Sherlock; usually, a hug helps and after a moment he leans into the touch, letting John coax him to lie back down for a bit of spooning before they both drift off again. Now, he hasn't even gotten to the stage when he can look at John.

Tonight, something so significant seems to be going on that it's able to pierce through the panic and parse itself into a half-swallowed whisper, words fragmented by shaking lips: " _It's back,_ " Sherlock whispers.

John grabs hold of shaking shoulders. This is the hard part. He needs to ask simple questions with one-word answers. "What's back?"

_I know. I already know. It's a false alarm, it has to be. It's always been a false alarm, all the dozens of times._

Sherlock lets the arm he's been clutching to his chest drop and lifts his other palm instead, watching intently as he clenches the fingers into a fist and then opens them.

"The GBS? No, it's not," John tells him sternly, with a certainty he doesn't even have. He could be lying without meaning to, but it's a negligible crime in order to contain the damage. "Why do you think so?"

Asking Sherlock to pick evidence apart, to engage his intellect is the only way to start defusing this, the only possibility of keeping both their wits about.

"Numb. Tingles."

"Just one arm?"

Nod.

"Sore throat yesterday. Viruses can trigger a relapse." Sherlock's normal florid eloquence is gone, replaced by clipped monotone.

 _Auto-pilot_.

"You've had at least five head colds in the past five years," John points out. "If it was coming back, it would probably have done so already. Let me see that," John says, dropping his hands from clasping the bony shoulders, and lays a palm on the arm Sherlock has dropped to his lap. He's now moving the fingers as though playing the violin, as though testing if they still work.

"Numb first, yeah? Then tingling?"

Nod.

"Can you feel this?" John taps the back of his hand with his thumb.

A shake of the head. "No," accompanied with a horrified gasp that sounds loud in the quiet room.

_My drama queen._

John smiles. His own nervousness is abating as a theory begins forming in his head. "What about this?" he pinches the tip of Sherlock's little finger.

"Yes?" Relief and confusion battling misery and panic.

"Can you flex your elbow?"

Sherlock gives it all he's got and it works perfectly. "Wrist won't move," he complains.

"That's because the radial nerve controls that but not the elbow. The same applies to feeling on the back of your arm versus your little finger. It's just the radial nerve that’s been compressed. GBS doesn't first cause numbness and then tingling—it's the other way around, and it doesn't usually just hit one limb. It also can't affect just one peripheral nerve. You've slept badly on your arm, nothing worse."

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief.

"Saturday night palsy?" John asks. Sherlock has an impressive knowledge base of scientific vocabulary, including medical slang; perhaps he's more familiar with this colloquial term.

"It's not Saturday."

John is relieved to hear a tinge of indignation in his tone instead of the frightening detachment of a moment ago. "It's just a pet name for transient radial palsy. Honeymoon palsy's the other name; that's when someone else has slept on a hand. Could have been me." They had fallen asleep close to each other as they often do, which explains why the middle of the bed dipping had easily roused John and made him roll to his side. "Is it getting any better?"

"All my fingertips are on pins and needles, now," Sherlock argues. "You could be wrong."

"And that's probably just a bit of adrenaline. You've had a fright, but your arm's going to be fine."

"So the presentation isn't typical, and the distribution of the symptoms doesn't match?"

"Exactly. Believe me, I read everything I could get my hands on about GBS when you were––" John draws a breath; they don't often talk about this, though they can usually do so without Sherlock freaking out. Right now, in his current state, John wouldn't want to risk it, but it's clearly data the man now needs, so that's what he'll have. "––in intensive care. Had lots of time on my hands."

"You wouldn't let me read those things."

"Because it wouldn't have been good for you. Reading the statistics wouldn't have given you a much more precise individual prognosis than your neurologists already had, and you tend to catastrophize."

"I do no such thing!"

John chuckles at the righteous indignation in his tone.

Sherlock tries to more his wrist again and now, he can already lift his hand a little bit.

John is beginning to get sleepy again now that he knows Sherlock's starting to believe him and, as a consequence, calm down. He drops his head back on his pillow and stretches an arm across the middle of the bed. "Come on. I promise you that your arm's going to be good as new, come morning. It's probably not even proper Saturday night palsy since."

"One of us should stay awake to monitor things. There is evidence-based research that shows a GBS relapse can be triggered by viral infections," Sherlock insists.

"Sure." John yawns. He's quite sure they'll both be asleep once a certain someone stops riling themselves up.

Sherlock slithers back under the covers and scoots closer to John so that their sides are pressed together, placing his arms on the duvet.

John can tell from the preoccupied, concentrated silence emanating from him that he isn't quite done with gathering evidence.

"You have encountered and diagnosed this problem in several patients before?"

"Yes."

"It always resolves and is not indicative of a progressive neurological issue?"

"Yes to the first and no to the second question." John switches off the light.

"In your reading you never encountered a similar presentation as a first symptom of a GBS relapse?"

"Never," John promises.

"I can hear you're smiling. Stop it."

"Sorry. You're just being very you."

"Who else would I be? I don't make a habit of imitating other people."

"Except for Mycroft and Anderson, when you are making fun of them." John fumbles around in the dark for Sherlock's hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss on the knuckles. "Is this sore throat why you were so snappish at the crime scene yesterday? Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was _work_ ," Sherlock scoffs towards the ceiling. "I didn't have time to worry about possible consequences, so I made myself stop thinking about it."

"We've talked about this. You can't just shove stuff in a box and bury it under the Mind Palace floorboards when you get upset. It'll come bite you in the arse. And, it sort of affects the way you act: like I said, you acted like a pissed-off bloody hornet yesterday."

"I wasn't upset. Honestly, John, I'm _not a child_. I was merely academically concerned about some mild symptoms yesterday, no need to alert you because you _fuss_."

"I reserve the right to do precisely that when you're acting weird." _Like_ _five minutes ago._ "I know you are scarily good at shoving away stuff you don't want to deal with and what upsets you, but you should have enough evidence by now that it just delays it." He's not really nagging; truth be told, after the crisis they'd had during Sherlock's recovery, he's taken huge strides in at least trying to communicate to John about things that cause him anxiety. Those things are more plentiful than John could ever have imagined before they got together. During the illness and the recovery those issues came so close to the surface that Sherlock had to ditch his unflappable front, to lower the walls he'd built up to protect himself and keep others away.

"I couldn't have told you about this before, because it only happened _now_ ," Sherlock argues back, and John can feel the frustration mounting; he's getting agitated again because he feels like John is chastising him for not failing to act the way he is expected to. "There was _work_ , and I wasn't _upset—_ you know I hate that word!"

"You're right; sorry, did you want anything for your throat?" John should have some paracetamol in the bedside cabinet, and he always brings a glass of water to the bedroom.

"Best not mask the symptoms; they need to be kept an eye on."

" _Sherlock_ ," John warns. Even if the GBS was coming back, making a deep analysis of the symptoms of some head cold is not going to do anything else than drive Sherlock round the bend. But, John knows better than to say this out loud. He knows how frightening the ' _if_ ' is that Sherlock has to live with for the rest of his life. Once, soon after his discharge, it nearly wrecked his mental health and their relationship. To stop Sherlock from fretting right now, John needs to take control, to adopt a physician's responsibility over keeping a watchful eye. Once, the last thing Sherlock had wanted was for John to act as his doctor, but now, his knowledge and his skills are the one thing that can help Sherlock let go of worrying about things he has no control over. "We'll have a look at you in the morning if you're still feeling under the weather."

There's a hum in reply. John knows these hums; there are many different kinds, and he's relieved to decipher this one as the 'already lost interest' -one, instead of the 'distracted-because-frightened' one.

He lets go of Sherlock's hand, deposits it back on his stomach before turning over towards the wall. His bad shoulder doesn't often permit sleeping on that side but when it does, he makes good use of the opportunity.

Soon, a lithe arm slides onto his waist on top of the duvet and the front of a very familiar body is pressed against his back.

Sherlock's voice is calm and determined in the dark: "If it comes back, you'll notice." It's not a question to seek reassurance like all the things he had said minutes ago had been. This is a statement of fact, an assertion of what he knows is true; that whatever happens, he's not alone to face it. That whatever happens, they've already survived it once because John was there. Because they worked together.

Because they _were_ together, even if they weren't brave to call it anything but friendship at that stage.

John turns his head and cranes his neck so that he press a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "If it ever comes back, it won't be tonight."

"Maybe––" Sherlock starts. "Maybe you're right."

"Can I get that in writing?"

An indignant huff. " _Maybe_ you're right that it seems likely that it would have relapsed already. It's been _years_."

"The _best_ years."

"Don't change the subject."

"It isn't changing the subject because we're not continuing the discussion. Speculation at three in the morning never helps anyone."

Silence is his reply. Until...

"They _have_ been the best years," Sherlock confirms.

 

—The End—

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by 7PercentSolution (obviously).


End file.
